


The Ghosts That We Knew

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Mother-Son Relationship, Nightmares, Pre-Canon, R plus L equals J, Supernatural Elements, Winterfell, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-29 22:16:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10145738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Everyone knows that Winterfell is haunted, but Jon Snow has never seen a ghost before.





	

Everyone knew that Winterfell was haunted.

Maester Luwin could deny it, in a firm voice and with all the logic of the Citadel, until there was no more breath in his body, but Old Nan had told them true when she said, “Eight thousand years folk have lived in Winterfell, and eight thousand years is a time enough for folk to leave their mark. ‘specially folk like the Starks.”

The soldiers told tales over flagons of ale in whispers when Jon and Robb were supposed to be abed. They’d hear men screaming and rush to their rescue, only to find no one there. Mysterious music would play, and the scents of old feasts would fill the air. Jon had overheard one serving girl swear on her mother’s grave that she had heard a woman’s laughter from behind her one night, but there had been no one there when she turned around.

Everyone had a ghost story except for Jon.

Years had passed since Robb first came up to him with wild eyes, and Jon had gone without so much as a glimpse of a specter. In that time he had heard tales from Arya, Bran, and even Sansa. Jon was desperate to see one, no matter how harrowing the stories his siblings told were.

He did not expect it to happen that night, however.

Jon had been out in the godswood late, praying, and he would have gone straight to bed if he had not heard the whispers like wind through the trees.

 _“Promise me,”_ a woman’s voice called, too softly, again and again.

It came from only a few feet away. Only a few feet away, he swore and he swore until he was standing outside of the crypts. That was when he saw her.

 _I know every person in Winterfell,_ he thought, almost indignantly, but not this one.

 _“Promise me,”_ she said again as he crept towards her, but her mouth did not move. It was as though the words came from the fabric of the universe. The air smelled sweet as he drew nearer to her, like the scent of winter roses, and he remembered those tales of ancient feasts.

He knew the woman for a spirit. Her form flickered under the torchlight, and the colors of her were faded like cloth that had been left in a trunk for too long.

_Eight thousand years..._

His footsteps must have been too loud because she turned to him, and their eyes met. She had the long face, dark hair, and grey eyes of a Stark — sad eyes, like she had seen too much of the world and liked it little. Yet, they did not lack gentleness.

 _This is what Arya will look like when she is grown,_ he realized _._ The ghost’s form was that of a young woman, though older than he was — young and beautiful and as slender as a spear. She was near in height to Jon, but she had surely stopped growing while he had not.

The woman wore a white gown in the traditional Northern style, but there was red across the bodice — blood splattered across her chest, taking the shape of a bloody smile. _What happened to her?_ It looked like the face of a weirwood tree, but Jon had never seen a _laughing_ weirwood tree before in his life.

“Where is my son?” she demanded of Jon. “Where is the prince that was promised?”

Jon swallowed and said, with great care, because no good ever came from offending a spirit, “I do not know, my lady. There are no princes in Winterfell.”

Her grief filled the hall like a miasma. She wept bitterly, and trails of dark red blood flowed down her white cheeks. “Did he break his word?” she asked. “He swore!”

“I do not know who —”

He took another step forward, but that was a mistake. She vanished before Jon could ask her who she meant or who she was.

He stood there a moment longer, but she did not return. _Winterfell is not her place anymore. Why should she return?_

He breathed deeply before turning on his heel.

Jon considered telling Robb about what he had seen, but they were nearly men now, not the boys they had been when Robb first saw that king. Jon might have told him if he had seen something more interesting, but why would Robb care about some ancient queen who wanted only to see her son?

 _“The prince that was promised,”_ she had called him.

That sounded important, and he did not know why. He could ask Maester Luwin, but that would require telling him what Jon had seen. He wasn’t interested in a lecture.

He could ask Old Nan, but their nurse might not know if the queen were old enough. “The history of the North is longer than the memory of an old woman,” she had told them once, “ _or_ the records of the Citadel.”

Jon cursed his ancestors silently. If the First Men had mastered letters, then he might know what she meant and who she was. He could have comforted her by telling her what had become of her son when she wept her bloody tears.

He would tell Arya about her, in the morning, Jon decided as he began to fall asleep. His little sister would like the tale, even if it were short and lacking in excitement.

Jon’s dreams were strange that night. He saw a winter rose wilting in a red desert while a harp played a sad song and white swords danced. Wolves howled in the distance. He saw a silver maid mount a black horse and a white cat roar unheard. He saw the dark feet of a woman and a child running for safety as a golden lion and a great horned beast pursued them. Then they were looming over _him_ , and the beast raised a hammer and brought it down upon his chest.

Jon woke with a scream on his lips.


End file.
